God Rest Ye, Merry Gentleman
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: A late entry for a School for Scandal missing scene.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Warning: Death of a minor character.

Many thanks to my valiant betas, Cheri and Owl--prevailing against the chaos of vacations and overheating hard-drives, not to mention my typos.

**Author's Note: **Arthur Farnell, the bad boy of the episode "School for Scandal" has spawned his own subset of fanfic stories. Owl had him bribe a juror in his first trial in "Scam I Am", and then (while out on bail awaiting his second trial) escape to the ever convenient, extradition-proof Caribbean paradise of San Rio Blanco. He was residing there as a mostly model citizen in her story "Sundazzle". He was aboard the good ship Thalia for her ill-fated voyage in "Murder at Sea" (more sinned against than sinning), and finally assisted Mark in the organizing of a coup d'état on the neighboring island of San Roque in my own story, "The Martingale". No, we never quite fully reformed him, but he certainly earned his keep.

And I always wondered what happened after that—

**God Rest Ye, Merry Gentleman**

by L.M. Lewis

The first call came from Aggie Wainwright—one of San Rio Blanco's _grand dames_, especially, Mark thought, if you pronounced that second word with a long 'a'. As character witnesses went, she was hard to beat, and he hadn't actually known her to go to bat for Arthur Farnell before this. Tolerate him, yes—as a cheeky and always entertaining fellow ex-pat—but never plead his case.

"Yes, I know how Milt feels about it. That's why I called you. I thought you'd be a little more receptive. It's been twelve years."

"Aggie, there's no statute of limitations if you take off once the prosecution is underway. If he comes back he's still on the hook for a second trial, plus the charges stemming from his tampering with the jury from the first trial."

Mark heard the words coming out of him almost as if he'd subsumed the judge's own views on the matter, which he'd heard at great length on several occasions over the years. No, they weren't precisely his own views, but he understood them.

"You _know_ how Hardcastle feels about that kind of stuff," he plugged on. "If he hadn't already had it in for Farnell from way back, committing fraud on the court would have been more than enough."

Mark sighed. He knew it ought to be enough for him, too, but Farnell had done him one truly enormous favor almost exactly five years back, and, anyway, he'd never been quite able to muster up Hardcastle's level of animosity toward the suave thief.

"Tell me again," he asked, "exactly why did he say he wanted to come back?"

"It's an old flame. A woman named Patricia."

He could hear the sympathetic approval in Aggie's voice. Whatever Farnell had said, it had convinced her.

"Trish," Mark said quietly. "If he wants to see her, why doesn't he just send her a plane ticket?"

"It's not that easy," Aggie admitted.

"Yeah. She did a year up at Frontera, which is twelve months longer than Artie served anywhere. I wouldn't be surprised if she wrote him off a long time ago. So why does he suddenly want to kiss and make up?"

"It may be their last chance. He says she's dying."

"_Huh_? She's not that old—way younger than him. Hell, younger than me."

"He didn't say what of. He didn't want to talk about it. He had a letter from her, though, and she said she was willing to see him one last time 'for old time's sake'."

"Cancer or something?" Mark frowned.

"Or something," Aggie echoed. "Look, he's willing to come across the border at Tijuana and take a chance, but he'd rather not bring any trouble with him when he visits her. He figured as long as he stays low-key no one is going to make much effort to get the prosecution back on track . . . except for Milt."

"Well, he's right about that."

"So could you talk to him? Milt, I mean."

"You believe what Farnell's saying?"

"Yes," Aggie replied simply. "I know there's always been a touch of the con with him, but he's different now. He looks terrible, like he's been shaken by this."

"Over a women he hasn't seen in more than ten years?" Mark asked doubtfully.

"Like you said, she's a lot younger than him, and he's remembering her from when she was younger still—beautiful, too, I'll bet."

"Stunning. Hell, she tried to get me killed and I barely blinked."

In the pause that followed he could almost see Aggie smiling ruefully on his behalf and maybe shaking her head.

What she finally said, though, was, "See, that's what you call an intimation of your own mortality. And he ran out on her, right? Maybe he needs a chance to make that right."

It was Mark's turn to smile. He didn't think of Aggie as the romantic type, but if Farnell had won even her over, the least he could do was give it a shot. He ran his fingers through his hair then held his palm pressed against his forehead for a moment.

"Okay," he finally said, "I can talk to Hardcase, but will he listen?"

00000

He figured from what Aggie had said that if he were going to do it, he couldn't put it off. He did his own background search, then contemplated his options and decided the estate was the place to broach the subject—isolated enough that if yelling became an issue, it wouldn't disturb anyone. He also had a notion that in private the judge wouldn't feel quite the compulsion to defend the pursuit and punishment of Farnell to the full extent of the law.

It was nothing unusual for one of their days to spill over into a working supper and this could easily be described as that sort of occasion. They both wanted to get things wrapped up in advance of the approaching holiday and the judge appeared to think there was nothing suspicious about Mark's offer to pick up pizza and rendezvous with him back at the ranch.

Mark, on the other hand, was having some serious qualms by the time he mounted the front steps balancing the extra large New York-style, with onions, mushrooms, green pepper and pepperoni. For one thing, parking out front made it feel as though he were anticipating the need for a quick getaway.

He edged through the door, announcing himself with a faux-cheery, "Pizza guy."

"Back here." Hardcastle's muffled holler came from the direction of the dining room, not—Mark saw as he entered—that there was going to be any pretense at formality, just that the table there provided the most room for laying out their work while still leaving a modicum of space for the two paper plates and the pie itself.

He laid his burden down. Not the metaphysical part, of course—he thought any discussions about right, wrong, and placing the rules in abeyance for a greater moral purpose ought to wait until they were both fed. Beer might help, too, though he'd never known the judge to be mellowed by its consumption.

Maybe if he'd been able to rig up some sort of fishing weekend but . . . no, there'd been no time for that. He opened the box and let the smells waft for a moment, then unshipped a couple of pieces for each of them. The judge ate left-handed, jotting notes in pencil on the papers spread out before him while he chewed methodically. Mark tackled a slice unenthusiastically while pretending to pay attention to his part of the pile.

After about a half-hour, with the dinner part of the working dinner mostly out of the way, Mark sat back, fiddling with his pen for a moment. It didn't take long for Hardcastle to notice what was going on, and hardly any time past that before he frowned and said, "Whatsamatter, too much pepperoni?"

"Uh-uh," Mark shook his head, "just not much appetite."

"You coming down with something?"

"No, something's come up, that's all."

Hardcastle's expression took on a shade more concern. "What kind of 'something'? Kath's all right? _Matt_?" His brow furrowed even more.

"Uh-uh. Fine. Both of them." Mark paused a moment, but he knew it wasn't going to get any easier. "A couple days ago you asked me what I wanted for Christmas."

Hardcastle nodded. "You said you didn't need anything. You know how annoying it is when somebody says that?"

"It's what _you_ always say." Mark pointed out.

"I know, but that's because I _don't_ need anything."

"Well . . . I do."

The suddenness of the comment seemed to take the older man by surprise but he said nothing, merely cocking his head in still-puzzled expectance.

"I need some help paying off a debt," Mark said quietly.

If Hardcastle felt any deeper surprise it wasn't immediately apparent, and Mark didn't give him a chance to jump to any incorrect conclusions as he plunged on into the heart of the matter.

"Aggie called." If he hadn't already had the judge's undivided attention, that would have done it, and on that moment of astonishment he quickly laid out the lines of the situation.

"So you think you owe him, huh?" Hardcastle huffed at the end of the pithy presentation. "I think that's exactly why he lent a hand back in San Roque—that and a chance to corrupt you a little."

"It was my plan, not his . . . well, mine and Kathy's."

The judge looked a little taken aback.

"Most of the good parts were hers," Mark admitted, "but Farnell was pretty handy in the 'ways and means' department, and if he hadn't come through for me a couple of times, you might still be scratching hatch marks on the wall of that prison, so, yeah, I owe him."

Hardcastle seemed almost ready to accede that point; it must have been the determination on Mark's face. "Okay," he grumbled, "but what makes you willing to believe anything he's saying right now?"

"Aggie thinks it's true, too."

"That's because she's an honest woman," Hardcastle replied stiffly, "and she thinks other people are honest, too."

"You know better than that, Judge—not that she isn't honest, but she's also nobody's fool."

"Hmm."

"And I checked around a little. I even went to see Trish. She looks . . ."

"What?"

"Different. It's been a long time."

"Did she tell you what's wrong with her?"

"No, but I can guess. She's lost weight. She looked . . . _gaunt_. Anyway, I talked to her for a while."

"And she's still carrying a torch for Farnell?"

"No. She said it was hard to forgive him for running out on her, leaving her to hold the bag. She's pretty sure she did time because he ran. That was _prima facie_ evidence that they were both guilty and she was the only one left to punish."

"Did she use that—the '_prima facie_' part?"

Mark smiled. "She's smarter than you think—just bad taste in boyfriends."

"She helped set you up to be killed, remember."

"So, I guess I had bad taste in girlfriends, too." Mark shrugged. "But we already knew that, right?" He smiled encouragingly.

"I think you're being a sap again," the judge said sharply.

"Then so is Aggie," Mark retorted, just as sharp. "Do you think she's a bad judge of character?"

"Only when it comes to Artie Farnell," Hardcastle muttered. Then he grimaced and added, "So why come to you?—Besides that he knows you're a sucker for a hard luck story, and he can't stand the idea that he couldn't coax you into the pool twelve years ago."

Mark smiled wryly. He suspected that a little part of Hardcastle's longstanding hostility toward Farnell was the notion that the guy was still interested in luring him over to the dark side, but this was no time for tweaking the judge about that.

"I talked to him." He paused, waiting for the older man's scowl to dissipate. It didn't. He sighed.

"He's got it figured that if he comes across at Tijuana right before the holiday, the chances of anyone taking a close look at his papers are pretty low."

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with you? The last thing he should have wanted to do was let me in on it."

"Me driving—up-to-date license and address—I'd be the one who gets looked at."

"Hah, and if they bust him at the border, he's compromised you. He'd like that."

"No, that's the beauty of it: me a member of the bar, him a wanted felon. If any trouble comes up then I'm his lawyer, assisting him in his attempt to return to the States to make things right."

"He's agreed to that?" The judge asked suspiciously.

"Probably only if it doesn't happen," Mark admitted. "But it's my story and I'm sticking to it. I won't be able to help it if my client gets cold feet at the last minute."

"He's running a big risk, here."

"Only if you tip off the border guard, Kemosabe," Mark said solemnly.

"But—"

"It's a debt of honor. _Mine_."

He felt a twinge of guilt for shoving it off on Hardcastle that way. He was pretty sure that, even sitting in that pitch-black San Roque hell-hole in the cell across from a dying man, the judge would have spat rather than accept help from Arthur Farnell. But, thank God, he hadn't been available to consult on the choice.

Now the man looked as if he were biting down hard on something sour. There was a moment of hesitation, but Mark didn't think the outcome was in much doubt. Nobody understood honor like the Lone Ranger.

"He's only asking for three days," Mark hastened on. "I'll drive him up here the day after tomorrow, deliver him to Trish's, and then pick him up the morning of the twenty-sixth and drop him off back on that side of the border."

"And what if you get caught going in _that_ direction? What's your story then?"

"What are the odds—you think the Mexican authorities are going to look twice at a couple of guys heading down to Tijuana for a little post-holiday cheer? Anyway, he doesn't have any outstanding warrants down there."

Hardcastle frowned for a moment and finally conceded a grim nod to this assessment of the system. Then he raised an eyebrow sharply. "And Kathy's okay with this? You told her what's up?"

Mark nodded. "Everything. She's a sucker for a happy ending, too. Sorry, the whole family's let you down."

He kept his low-key smile firmly in place as he watched the other man wrestling. It was between his firm sense of what was right and his higher instincts. It looked as if he was going for the best two falls out of three, but—at long last—higher instincts carried the day.

"All right," the judge said. "If you gotta do it, I won't throw a monkey wrench in your operation."

Mark didn't thank him. His own higher instincts had informed him that the expected response would be to bury the whole subject quickly and pretend, as much as was possible, that it had never come up. He gathered his papers in just short of indecent haste and bid the judge goodnight.

00000

So Christmas Eve found him at Rodriguez International Airport, watching the passengers deplaning from the Aeromexico flight that had originated in San Rio. His first notion, as the clumps became a trickle, was that Farnell had gotten a last-minute case of nerves. It seemed unlikely, though. Mark remembered him, five years back, his foot braced up on a jeep, and a cheroot clamped cheerfully in his teeth as he cradled an AK-47. Arthur Farnell was not the nervous type.

And true to Mark's recollections, he finally spotted a solitary figure wrapped in a tan trench-coat and sporting a jaunty fedora, descending the steps to the tarmac. He had a small bag—something stylish, probably in Italian calfskin, Mark suspected—and a pair of Ray-Bans. He doffed the glasses as he stepped into the terminal and tucked them into his pocket.

The waiting area was crowded with pre-holiday passengers but Mark didn't have to wave. Farnell spotted him and nodded once tightly as he headed in his direction. It was a polite but restrained greeting between two men who were at least officially adversaries.

He politely held a hand out—not to shake, but in an unspoken offer to carry the older man's bag. To his surprise, Farnell relinquished it.

"How was the flight?" Mark asked in a stiff imitation of small talk. It suddenly occurred to him that it might take an hour or more just to cross the border on a day like today. Farnell had certainly timed his arrival for minimum individual attention from the authorities. And then, presuming that first part went off without a hitch, there'd be another two hours, at least, to get up to Trish's place.

If Farnell was aware of any social awkwardness, he didn't show it. "Nice," he said, with the first hint of a smile. "It's always nice coming home for the holidays."

Mark thought there might have been a touch of the sardonic to this last remark. As far as he recollected, Farnell's only home in the LA area had been a suite at the Beverly Hills Hilton and he'd originally hailed from New Jersey, but he went along with the flow.

"Trish will be glad to see you."

There was a definite quirk to the older man's smile, now. "'Glad'?" He shook his head slowly. They were almost to the main doors leading out.

"You have luggage?"

Another more definitive shake. "No, traveling light. It's not that many days."

They stepped out onto the sidewalk, a pleasantly warm day for December. Now, seeing Farnell up close and in the full light, Mark realized what Aggie had meant. Of course it had been five years since he'd last laid eyes on him, and on that occasion Mark's mind had been focused elsewhere, but time had etched itself deeper into Arthur Farnell's face than he remembered.

"I can bring the car around," he offered clumsily.

"No, been sitting too long," Farnell said. "A stretch of the legs'll do me some good."

That might have explained the stiffness that Mark was now aware of—the slight shuffle to the walk. Hardcastle did that sometimes when he first got up from a long sit, but he was seventy-five.

He pushed that thought to the back of his mind as he ushered Farnell in the right direction. It was a decent distance and the older man walked with a measured tread that had no lightness to it. Mark suspected he was not looking forward to the reunion he'd planned, or maybe he was still concerned about the border crossing.

He needn't have been. It went like clockwork—at least to the extent that clocks contained a multitude of parts and adding a few grains of sand could wreak havoc with the mechanism. But for two men who had no desire draw any unwanted attention to themselves, the situation merely called for patience.

Mark had spent a fair amount of time in the criminal justice system, man and boy, and was no stranger to keeping his head down and a look of bland indifference on his face. Farnell, surprisingly, seemed to have cultivated the same approach. Eventually they were processed through, with no more than the routine questions and paper shuffling.

After that there was the San Diego holiday traffic to contend with before, at long last, they got to the ocean views of the PCH heading north toward LA. Mark relaxed a little and Farnell seemed to pick up on it, finally making an effort at conversation.

"How's the family business?"

Mark jabbed a quick glance in his direction. It didn't look to have been a gibe. "Fine," he said. "The clinic is doing great. I enjoy it, you know." He thought that last bit might have come out a little defensive but there was no way to go back and modify the tone.

"Not that lawyers aren't useful," Farnell mused, "but I still say your main talents lie elsewhere."

Mark was almost relieved at the retrospective approach the man was taking. The last time they'd gotten together, Farnell had insisted on being the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come, full of ghastly portents that suggested Mark would recreate Hardcastle's career on the bench.

That was ridiculous, of course, and he had no idea why it had disturbed him so. Thank God Farnell seemed to have gotten it out of his system.

"And your accountant—she's doing fine?"

Mark nodded, this time happily. "Kath's great. She said to say 'hi'."

This teased a smile onto the older man's face. "And your son, how old now?"

"Two," Mark replied quietly and then, after a hesitation, added, "That was an interesting christening gift you sent."

Farnell chuckled. "I thought the thank-you note was a little restrained."

"Well," Mark sighed, "If he's going to get a set of lock-picks from anyone, it probably ought to be from me."

"You have a point there," Farnell admitted. He was smiling slyly. "Silver spoons and baby rattles are so impractical, though."

After that the conversation subsided again. At first Farnell seemed to be absorbed by the scenery, or maybe it was introspection, with the upcoming reunion looming ahead. It couldn't have been looming too seriously, though, because after another fifteen minutes of contemplative silence, Mark glanced sideward and, to his surprise, Farnell was dozing, eyes at more than half-mast and head drooping.

Mark said nothing. The flight must've required an early departure and though he was younger than Hardcastle, Farnell was quite evidently no spring chicken.

But McCormick found the idea of the man dozing off while in what was surely enemy territory a bit disconcerting. Was it utter confidence in his word—and, by extension, Hardcastle's? Or did Farnell simply not care anymore if he was brought to justice?

He was still pondering this a half-hour later, as he exited the highway at Norwalk. He was a tiny bit relieved to hear Farnell roused by nothing more than the change in speed.

"Almost there?" the man muttered.

"Um-hmm." Mark turned onto Rosecrans Avenue and then made another left turn after a few blocks. Farnell was more alert now, sitting up straight and studying the surroundings. It was an unprepossessing neighborhood and the building Mark had pulled up in front of was part of a complex of two-story apartments.

Trish must've been watching for them. He saw her now, stepping out of the second door from the right, standing on the stoop and shading her eyes. She knew Mark's Volvo from his visit a few days before.

"It's her," Farnell said.

Mark could understand the note of bemusement. The man hadn't seen her in over a decade.

"Yeah," he answered tersely. Let him contemplate how much of the change was his fault. Not that Trish had been a blushing innocent back then, but her association with Farnell had cost her a lot.

If he was experiencing any pangs of guilt, he didn't voice them. His eyes were riveted on her, though, as he fumbled for the car door. Arthur Farnell fumbling at anything was an unexpected sight. He finally got it open and hauled himself to his feet.

"Your bag," Mark reminded him. He'd been on the verge of walking off without it.

Farnell glanced back and frowned, as though he forgotten who had driven him here. Mark handed him the bag and he took it.

"_Here_," Mark said firmly, "ten a.m., the day after tomorrow. Okay?"

"I won't run, Counselor, if that's what you're worrying about," Farnell replied wearily. "I gave you my word on that."

Mark sighed. "I've always had a sneaking admiration for you, Artie, God only knows why, but let's face it, integrity is not your strong suit."

"Then why are you trusting me this time?" Farnell asked mildly.

"I'm clearing a debt. If it winds up costing me more than I owe, then Hardcastle gets to tell me 'I told you so'. I guess that makes it a win-win situation. Anyway, the twenty-sixth, ten a.m."

Farnell gave him a long, steady gaze and said, with a firmness of his own, "I'm not running. I just want to see Trish one last time. The truth."

And whether it was or not, it was all Mark had and he'd already decided to accept it.

Farnell glanced over his shoulder at Trish then back at Mark, and in a belated gesture of courtesy said, "Did you want to stop in for a visit?"

"Already did a couple days ago, but then you probably knew that, huh?"

Farnell tipped his head and smiled crookedly, then straightened up and turned toward the woman on the steps of the building. He clutched the handle of his satchel and walked toward her without looking back.

Mark only stayed long enough to see him reach his destination. He was relieved, in a way, not to see her fall into his arms. But she did grasp his free hand with both of hers. It all seemed civil enough. Mark shook his head once, sat back in his seat, and started up the car.

00000

It was a subdued Christmas at Gull's Way. Frank's schedule had not permitted any out-of-town visiting, so he and Claudia had been appended to the guest list as a matter of course. Frank's presence put a damper on any speculation the judge might have otherwise made concerning Farnell. Mark was impressed by his self-control, though he'd known all along that for Hardcastle a promise was a promise.

Matt was the center of the festivities, at an age where he needed assistance with unwrapping and the boxes enchanted him almost more than their contents. Mark found himself thinking about the odd little package that had shown up in their mailbox nearly two years before—a month after his son's birth.

The card that had accompanied it had only borne the initials 'A.F.' Kathy had found it amusing. Mark had been initially upset. A new set of lock picks as a baby gift might have been chalked up to a puckish sense of humor, but an old set—in a venerable leather case that looked as though it had been much used and well-cared for—that was more like a portent—or a passing of the baton.

He'd never told Hardcastle about it. What was the point of adding to the man's already lengthy list of grievances against his old nemesis? But he hadn't disposed of the tools, either, and he'd never been quite sure why. Maybe it constituted a sign that Farnell was now well and truly retired. Or—and this was most likely, he thought—he'd learned to value all bequests, all connections to the past, good or bad, having had so few of his own while he was growing up.

He watched the judge as he demonstrated the art of hammering wooden pegs in a toy workbench. Matt gleefully clung to his grandfather's knee and Kathy snapped a photograph for the ever-expanding family album.

00000

The long-awaited day finally wound down, with Claudia and Frank bidding them farewell.

"You could stay the night—the gatehouse is yours," the judge suggested to Mark and Kathy, once the company had departed.

Mark leaned against the mantle, hands in his pockets. Kathy occupied one end of the couch, with their son sprawled asleep in her lap.

"Sounds tempting, but I've got some driving to do tomorrow," Mark reminded him gently.

"Hmm," Hardcastle grunted. "What time?"

"To pick him up?—I told him ten. There's only one flight a day from Tijuana to San Rio. Three p.m. I'm allowing extra time."

Hardcastle nodded judiciously. There was a silent moment—during which no one made any motions to get going—and then the judge added, abruptly, "I'll go with you tomorrow."

"_Why_?" Mark asked, startled.

All he got in answer was a shrug.

"I think it's a good idea," Kathy said quietly. "That way you'll have some company on the way back."

Mark cocked his head. He had a feeling he was being ganged up on here, but if that were the case, he didn't suspect a conspiracy. Anyway, it might be fun to see the two old adversaries go one more round and, who knew; maybe the judge could even persuade Farnell to finally turn himself in.

"Okay," he acceded, "if that's the plan, we might as well stay here." He started to yawn, and stifling that he added, "Just no basketball in the morning, okay?"

00000

There was no basketball, only pancakes, which Kathy flipped and served in the interest of keeping their strength up for the long day ahead. Matt, who had boxes to play with, got his pancake Mickey Mouse-style with raisins for eyes. After that the men-folk were off on their adventure, with Kathy and Matt left to wave to them from the front steps.

They slogged through the post-holiday traffic without much conversation. Hardcastle, unlike Mark's previous passenger, was alert the whole way. It was hard to tell if he was looking forward to the reunion but, by the time they got to Rosecrans Avenue, he was even leaning forward slightly, scanning the surroundings.

"That's it?" he pointed toward the building as they turned the corner onto the side street.

"Uh-huh," Mark replied, pulling into the first parking space. "Apartment 101—she's been here for three years."

"I don't get it. He pretty much threw her to the wolves."

"She knows that."

"So what's the deal with this?"

Mark gave that a little thought. "Maybe when you know it's coming down to the wire, all that stuff—who did what to whom—seems pretty stupid. You just remember the good times and want to make amends. I dunno."

"Well, neither do I." Hardcastle sat back.

Mark glanced down at his watch. It was a couple minutes to ten and he hardly expected Farnell to be _early_. Still, he hoped see him step out on the porch rather than make him go knock on Trish's door.

As if on command that door swung open, but a second later he realized that it was Trish who was emerging rather than Farnell. Mark frowned then opened his own door and clambered out, looking both ways and ducking across the street.

"I'm sorry," she said. "He's not here."

Mark's jaw went slack. He'd known it was possible, of course, and not just on a purely theoretical level. He was still staring impotently when he heard Hardcastle behind him. It was a grunt and then, "_Figures_."

Trish's eyes went a little narrower as she shifted them to the judge. It was a look Mark realized he'd never been on the receiving end of—he'd been a mere cat's paw to Farnell.

"He told me to give this to you."

She'd reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a small envelope—not more than the size that would hold a thank-you note. Mark had a sudden foreboding that it might be just that but, no, when Hardcastle tore into it impatiently, it contained only a folded piece of ordinary paper.

The judge bent his head and read quickly, then raised it just as sharply, a puzzled look on his face. "When?"

"Yesterday," Trish answered quietly. "He wrote that out in advance—before he came here. He wouldn't let me call an ambulance."

"Ambulance?" Mark looked back and forth between the other two. "What the hell happened?"

Hardcastle passed the note over without taking his eyes off the woman. "Suicide?"

"_No_," she replied with a control that was almost rigid. "And he didn't lie to you." She'd shifted her own gaze back to Mark. He looked up from the note. "He really did want to see me one last time," she said, "and I . . . haven't been well, but he's the one who was dying. He's known it for a while."

"How long?" Mark asked.

"The cancer? About five years now. He kept it a secret from everyone, even me." She lifted her chin slightly. "That part was easy. We hadn't been in touch for a while."

"Five years," Mark repeated, still stuck on that first fact.

"He said he wasn't too sick at the beginning and you asked him for some help back then, right after he was first diagnosed. He'd always wanted to thank you for that—he said he had a good time and he almost understood it—he called it your Tonto Complex."

Mark glanced aside at the judge. He felt a flush of embarrassment rising.

"Anyway, he ignored it at first, which is so Artie, and eventually, when he couldn't do that anymore, he started sneaking over to Tijuana for some sort of treatments. He still didn't want anybody to know he was sick. Any weakness, you know—in Artie's book those were dangerous." She smiled wistfully. "I don't think the treatments helped much, but it was easy to get pain medicine down there and . . . stimulants. Those kept him going, he said.

"But in the end he was tired. He just wanted to come home and die."

"'Home'?" Mark asked dubiously.

"He didn't have one. This was a close as he could get. _Me_," she added. There was a hint of a regret that was not quite bitterness in her tone.

"Why didn't he just ask?" Hardcastle interrupted brusquely.

"For himself?" she said. Then she shrugged. "He thought you'd say 'no', and," she hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead heedlessly, "I think maybe it was one last con."

Hardcastle scowled.

"He said you'd probably want to see his body for yourself," she added.

"Damn straight," the judge retorted.

It might have been nothing more than the mere precaution due a dangerous adversary. Trish didn't appear offended on Farnell's behalf.

"He thought so and, anyway, they told me he's a medical examiner's case—dying at home with no doctor to sign the certificate."

"We'll stop by and pay our respects," Hardcastle said tersely.

She nodded again and, looking frail in the cool December air, pulled her sweater tighter around her and ducked back through the door. Before she closed it, though, she pinned Mark with another look and said, "Thank you—that's from him. He said you never owed him anything. He really enjoyed San Roque, even if it meant busting _him_ out." She jerked her chin toward the judge but was smiling faintly.

Mark smiled back and the door swung shut, Trish's indistinct figure fading back into the shadowy hallway. He stood there for a moment until he heard Hardcastle mutter "_Hah_."

"I should have realized," Mark segued quietly. "He didn't seem like himself."

Hardcastle stuffed his hands into his pockets as they turned back to the car. "Classic misdirection. And like you said, he even fooled Aggie."

"I know but . . ."

"A typical Farnell move—he couldn't even make an exit without conning somebody."

"You never really bought into it," Mark pointed out.

"Yeah, I did. I let you get involved in it all, didn't I? I musta believed it."

"No you didn't. Why'd you insist on coming along this morning? 'Cause you knew he was up to something."

"Okay, _maybe_, but suspecting Artie of being up to something is a short odds bet: you'll always be right but it never pays anything off." He opened the passenger door as Mark strolled around to the other side of the car. "And, anyway, _dying_ was not what I thought he was up to."

Mark climbed in behind the wheel and waited for the judge to settle himself. Then he turned and fixed the man with a sharp, questioning look. "Are we really heading over to the morgue?"

"Sure," the judge nodded once, "like I said, pay our last respects . . . and you can't be too respectful with a guy like Artie Farnell."


End file.
